Willowbrook Rehab Center: Dreams Start Here
by ashley.hillson2012
Summary: Mycroft is finally done watching Sherlock screw up because of his drug habit, especially after botching a crime scene. He sends Sherlock to Willowbrook Rehab Center in hopes of finally fixing some of his brothers' bad habits. Dr. Watson is called in specifically to deal with Sherlock. As the two struggle to find peace, they find there's more to helping than counseling.
1. Chapter 1

**(I used the convo that started the idea for this fanfic. Just FYI. And take note that I'm only a small amount aware of drug rehabs in the USA and that's what I'll be going off of. I have no idea if the UK does the same or completely different.)**

The needle Sherlock used pulled cleanly out of his skin. He undid the tie string around his arm and rid himself of the paraphernalia. He stretched out, straightened his button-up shirt, and wandered out of the bedroom into his living room. Standing in the middle of the room was Mycroft. His hard eyes didn't need to see the red mark under Sherlock's white shirt to know the look in his younger brothers' eyes.

Sherlock didn't break stride, used to men randomly in his apartment especially since Lestrade seemed to have a stick shoved clear up his rectum about Sherlock's drugs. The man held a drug raid nearly every month trying to bust him. Thankfully Mycroft had been aware beforehand and fixed the problems such a fiasco it would cause before they even had a chance to start.

It was not often, but not unusual for Mycroft to show up around these times, which was why Sherlock thought was the purpose for this visit.

"The way you acted in the crime scene least week was very unlike you." Mycroft said about as dull as usual. Sherlock ignored the urges to shrug of tell the man to bugger off. If his older brother wanted a rise from him, he'd have to try a different tactic.

"I was high, Mycroft. I acted like a man who is high."

"I'm sending you to rehab." Sherlock leveled a heated look at Mycroft and judged the man was serious.

"You won't send me to rehab, Mycroft. Your little brother being exposed as a drug addict is a scandal you want to avoid." Sherlock straightened his fancy shirt, preparing to finish getting dressed. Lestrade had mentioned a new case earlier and Sherlock intended to be there within the hour.

"Surprisingly, Sherlock, my reputation is not more important than you. I've set up a clinic to take you this morning. I came to inform you and I brought a cab. Everything has been paid for. All you need is a bag of clothes and bathroom amenities."

"Don't be absurd, I will not be going."

"I knew you'd resist, brother mine. Which is why I'm prepared to have to taken into custody and forced into the clinic. LT Lestrade is downstairs with his team. I informed him that, should you not come willingly, I give him immediate access to search your flat. I leave the choice to you."

Sherlock straightened and looked eye to eye with Mycroft. The man was infuriating, to say the least. Forcing his hand in such a way was nothing new, Sherlock had to admit. The question was, would Sherlock take the cab? Well, of course he would. He may be high but he wasn't out of his mind. If he was going to end up in the rehab clinic either way, Sherlock would rather have as much slack from the workers as he could get and being forced with handcuffs would not allow that.

With a flourish, Sherlock finished getting dressed and tossed his coat onto his shoulders. He grabbed the few things he needed as well as his scarf. His brother patiently waited. Once Sherlock was finished the brothers left the flat, locking the door, and went down the two flights to the front door and stepped into the dreary day.

"I will be keeping tabs on your progress." Mycroft slipped into his own car and was off. Sherlock looked at the three police cars, saw Lestrade giving him a friendly yet serious head nod. Sherlock made no notice towards him or anyone else. Without having told Mycroft in the smallest amount via body language or words, Sherlock slipped into the cab and headed to the clinic.

There had been a few times in the past Sherlock had spent time in a clinic for rehab. He was not a stranger to the way things worked. Obviously, this clinic was aware of him and his tendencies.

"Mr. Holmes, welcome to Willowbrook Rehab Clinic. We've already set up your very own room and given you the rest of the day to get set up and get relaxed." The lady at the counter didn't waste a second the moment he entered. Mycroft hadn't slacked on informing the place. "We've set up a few classes for you to start tomorrow. Attendance is mandatory." She handed him a pamphlet.

Normally it was a thin piece of laminated paper but what she handed him was closer to a file. There was a map of the facility with colored areas for where a patient could go: building and grounds. There was kitchen hours as well as the medical room hours in case he got a headache or gained a cut. They simply handed him literal access to all the information he normally would have fought to gain either by wandering around himself or demanding from the superiors. Mycroft had them well informed.

Two orderlies, both dresses in soft blue hospital-type outfits escorted him through the main areas into the bedrooms. Every room had two beds but when they stopped in front of what Sherlock assumed was his room, there was only one bed. The room looked spacious. Once the door was closed, the orderlies informing him he was free to leave whenever but they urged him to settle in the room first, Sherlock went to the singular window and peered out. Bars lined the window, shades were pulled all the way up to let as much sunlight in. The view was of a gated pool that must have been at the back of the building. Lounge chairs and towel racks lined the walls. There was a type of park a little farther away and a wooded area that looked to have a trail heading into it. People, most likely from the center, wandered about the grounds.

Once he'd settled, Sherlock studied the map and found this was a fairly large area. Four buildings connected by glass walled walkways. There was a parking area for visitors, an area for the staff and an area for the clients that may have driven themselves. There was a pool, obviously, and a trail in the woods with benches to rest, a playground for "children at heart." There were areas in the buildings for working out, watching TV, reading, etc. The main building was one of the least for bedrooms, the other buildings were almost completely for clients' rooms. There were seven meeting rooms for clients to meet with visitors, if they didn't have the privilege to be out-and-about. There were three offices for the counselors. In the main building was a large living/lounge space (there was a small one in each building) that had a cafeteria attached as well as the entry room where he'd been greeted and a medical space.

There was a building across the street that privileged clients could go, with an escort, for a spa day. There were a few buildings within a mile radius, such as restaurants or shops, that a privileged client could go with an escort.

Sherlock had to admit, this was looking to be a very nice, relaxing center. Too bad he didn't like it.

The next day after having spent most of the previous day either in his room or checking out the living space, Sherlock agreed to let an orderly escort him to the first meeting. It was a group session about drug addicts and Sherlock lasted about 30 seconds before getting up and leaving. No one followed or told him to come back.

When he'd not shown up to any of his other classes, an orderly showed up at his room with a stern-looking elderly man.

"Mr. Holmes, if you would follow me." Sherlock rose from where he'd been sitting in the chair he'd taken from the lounge and did as was told. From his studying of the map, Sherlock was able to determine they were headed for one of the offices for counselors. With a deep sigh and an eye roll, Sherlock let himself be led into the one the older man encouraged him into.

Once inside, the door closed right behind him. It was a soothing room he found himself in. There was a dark leather couch against a wall and two padded chairs before a large wooden desk that was organized wonderfully. A tall lamp was the only source of light, which seemed all the more relaxing, for the darker hues in the carpets and walls, as well as the furniture seemed only to shiver in the light. There was, though, more than enough light to see the man behind the desk clearly.

Sandy short hair atop a very serious-expression face. Fingers interlaced under his chin, he studied Sherlock with brown eyes. A pencil was nestled between his fingers, the long sleeves of his white jumper stuck out like a sore thumb. Sherlock was almost immediately intrigued by the man.

"Have a seat, if you will." The man spoke and Sherlock couldn't help the almost painful reaction his body had towards the voice. It wasn't outright sexual but sounded more of an innocent and hidden sexuality.

Sherlock did as was requested, but he also played as if bored. There was a drawing on the wall of a beautiful landscape, the pain view was of a tree on an island far off into the distance, small waves lapping at the shores of the beach the painting seemed to have been drawn on. Birds barely visible against the sunset.

"Normally a counselor such as myself isn't brought into the attention of the client for some time, unless the client is rather difficult. Looking at your report and why you were brought here I can't imagine they were having a hard time with you."

"I don't particularly find group discussions interesting enough."

"So says your folder, yes. You find people in general boring." Sherlock looked at the man curiously. The expression the man had on before was now replaced by a fascination of sorts. No one had looked at Sherlock that way before, except maybe the lab woman, Molly.

"Beg pardon, but I believe I have things to do." Sherlock attempted to rise up but the man raised a hand. For some reason Sherlock stopped trying to leave.

"You know much of how this system works, don't you?"

"I'm aware. Though I've never had a counselor. Normally I was left to my own devices and eventually Mycroft would remove me from the area and I'd go back to my flat." There was a wonder as to why Sherlock told him so much.

"I'm not a regular counselor, at least not anymore. Now that you're here, anyway." The man leaned back in his chair, his eyes suddenly alight with a sparkle Sherlock would have figured lit in his eye at a new and rather intriguing crime scene. "My name is Dr. Watson, I'll be overseeing your treatment. We'll be seeing a lot of each other."


	2. Chapter 2

"My employer pulled me from St. Barts to work with you here." John laid his pencil down carefully, making not a single sound. "I have everything about you in folders."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. Mycroft was proving to be a rather large pain. It seemed he was serious about Sherlock getting clean this time. So serious he pulled Dr. Watson specifically for him. Fantastic.

The doctor handed him a folder. "These are my qualifications." Sherlock took it quietly and opened the top. There was a picture with Dr. Watson actually smiling. Schools that he'd attended were listed right before a few small hospitals. Those in which he spent a few years before St. Barts. At Barts he specialized in the patients that were generally more difficult than usual. Sherlock smirked on the inside, seeing the man's patience in his work as well as in the way he looked at Sherlock, practically drooling at the prospect of the case in front of him. Immediately, Sherlock respected the man a lot more.

Unfortunately, it wasn't enough respect for Sherlock to make any of this easy. It may have been a shame had Sherlock decided to make it easy, considering the man liked difficult cases.

"I would like you to at least try the group discussions."

Sherlock smirked and stood up, taking the file with him. "Am I required to stay in this meeting?"

"You are not required to do anything. All we do is highly suggest." The more he moved toward the door, the more relaxed the doctor seemed to be. "I'll see you next week," he stated as Sherlock opened the door.

Sherlock left the office and wandered back to his room. He sat on the bed and laid out the folder on the nightstand that had been provided to him. They refused to give him tape or tacks to put the papers on the wall. In irritation to realizing Watson was specialized in difficult cases, Sherlock went to the front desk and tried to talk the woman into giving him something-anything-to hang papers up.

"You're still a level one clearance, Mr. Holmes. All you get is what is given to you."

"I am no suicidal or murderous. That's not why I'm in here."

She leveled a hard stare at him. "There are suicidal and murderous people here that were not qualified enough-yet-to be sent to the institute. We know of your history enough to be understanding of your lack of care towards others' health. You could take anything given to you and use it as a weapon towards staff or trade it to another client for smuggled drugs or-what did you call it?-experiments?"

Sherlock stiffened, feeling like he'd been put in a corner. Mycroft had gathered literally every habit, every piece of himself and given it to these strangers. He was going to have words.

"Can I use the phone?"

"You haven't gained any outside points."

"Outside points?" Sherlock had never heard of this before. Must have been recently introduced to the rehabs.

"Yes, the more good behavior and deeds you do the more points you get. It's up to your supervisor to determine how many points a deed does you."

Without another word, Sherlock walked stiffly to his room. There, he fumed and gazed out the window. At least while he was seemingly stuck here under Mycroft's cake-loving thumb Sherlock might as well keep his deduction abilities honed. Not like he needed the practice but what else was there?

Monday, apparently, was the day Sherlock had been admitted. Tuesday suddenly became the day he met with Dr. Watson. At least that's what he figured since he was told on Monday that he was expected to show up at eight AM and if he wasn't present they would come get him.

With a deep and strong feeling of irritation that seemed to be a usual thing at Willowbrook, Sherlock showed up at exactly eight. Dr. Watson regarded him with a small amount of surprise, but smiled cheerfully regardless.

"Take a se..." He started to say but Sherlock maneuvered himself onto one of the chairs in front of the desks. Dr. Watson didn't clear his throat or give any indication he was put off. He simply closed the door and sat down in his chair. "I've a few things I'd like to discuss with you.

"First off, I know you're aware we keep tabs on everything you do. Which includes medication intake as well as food and beverages. Also, we note where and how often you spend your time. So this conversation should not come as a surprise. We've noticed you eat about every three days, drink enough water and then some each day, but at all hours of the day. You don't take the meds we prescribed to help with addiction side effects, but you have been asking for," he checked his papers, "tape and thumb tacks?"

"I have things to put on my wall." Sherlock explained in a bored tone. He was half a sentence away from leaving again. There seemed no point to this meeting anyway.

"I see." Dr. Watson smoothly went from that topic to the next, as if it didn't surprise him. Sherlock badly wanted to get a hold of the file Mycroft had given the man. "The last problem we'll be approaching today is your constant hiding within your room."

"I don't agree with stupid people."

"Sherlock, everyone here is different. It's rude to call people you don't know stupid."

There was a very large part of Sherlock that became curious just then. If everything in this file of his was about Sherlock, so much so the man wasn't surprised about demanding thumb tacks, how was Dr. Watson so flipant about the deductions Sherlock could make? Did he think they were fancy bar tricks?

"What's the point of me being here? All you are doing is stating the obvious, aside from everyone being stupid."

"I'm nearly starting with our session. I am outlining the discussion we will be having so you are aware of the point I'd like to discuss with you. Therefore I am going to inform you that until you sit and talk each one out with me, I will have you return here each day at the same time. No matter if you stay five minutes or an hour, we aren't done until I'm done."

Sherlock stood smoothly. Sure, he wasn't taking his pills but that didn't mean he wasn't feeling the side effects of less drugs. Thankfully his homeless network had been able to smuggle in some heroin here and there. Granted, going more than six hours left him with outbursts, which were mostly in his room so he never got in trouble with the orderlies. Except when he attempted to push everything in the room into the hallway out of a delusion everything had spider eggs in it. Or the time he threw up in the kitchen because he, for no reason, believed he'd eaten maggots instead of the mashed potatoes and then proceeded to throw everyone else's food on the ground. Or the time he told everyone someone had peed in the pool and no one would go swimming so they had it drained.

Before Sherlock could touch the handle, Dr. Watson was up and by the door.

"I want to remind you that my sessions count for points, too."

As promised, Sherlock was summoned back the next day at eight sharp. When he closed the door and headed for Dr. Watson's desk with obvious intentions, the doctor interjected with a smooth and sharp hand. Sherlock was shoved into a chair so fast he barely knew the man had touched him. In, admittedly, awe, Sherlock watched the man sit in his desk chair and straighten his jumper. What was with this man and jumpers?

"We'll start with the medication. There have been filled-out reports of your outbursts. Because no one was harmed or suffered you were not punished in any way save being sent back to your room. But given that you spend nearly every minute there, that isn't much of a punishment. Therefore I advise you to take them."

"If you think your advisement will make me do them, there must not be a lot of information in that folder."

"There's more than one. Labeled and color-coded." Sherlock clenched his fists. "Now, it's a small pill twice a day that should be taken with some food, at least. Which brings us to the next topic. Your water intake is fine, better than most healthy people. What I don't understand is your food intake."

"It's a waste of time."

"You have nothing but time here. You must be bored out of your mind, with no cases to work on. There's no reason for you to be eating every three days." Sherlock bristled. He was going to have more than just words with Mycroft the next time he saw that man.

"I am not hungry."

"Then it's a possible medical issue and I'll make an appointment with a doctor I trust. Maybe he can find out why your behavior doesn't point to withdrawals."

Sherlock knew, at this moment, Dr. Watson was aware of the continuation of heroin. It didn't seem to deter the man one bit in his attempts to straighten the addict out. Sherlock felt the man becoming an annoyance.

"How long do I have to stay before I get points?"

"An hour for ten points."

"How many points to make a call?"

"Fifty points."

With a groan-Sherlock was starting to feel withdrawals again-he held his head in his hands. He'd been in the room less than fifteen minutes.

"How about I stop by for five minutes every so often and they just add up." Sherlock offered, honestly not believing the man to say no. Apparently his deductions were off when his heroin was gone.

"No. It has to be a full hour to count."

"So yesterday and last Tuesday...?"

"You have no points so far."

"I ate food. I heard that's possible to get points from."

"You're not a normal client, Sherlock. You don't get normal client treatment."

Exasperated, Sherlock stood from the chair and moved to the couch. The couch was rather comfortable, more so than he'd previously thought. Maybe it was due to his lack of control at the moment. He was starting to feel shakes, the desire to scratch at his arms and jump out of his skin.

Over the next forty or so minutes, Dr. Watson attempted in any way to get Sherlock to have a conversation about the goals the doctor wanted to set, especially for the doctor visit. There was mentioning of getting him an "outside partner" to try and get Sherlock to do activities outside of his room and with another human being. Yet as hard as he tried, Sherlock kept mumbling random phrases that could be used to describe someone.

The moment Dr. Watson heard the phrases start coming out, he knew the man was going through his deductions as well as withdrawal. This man was a handful much bigger and more difficult than any of Dr. Watson's previous patients. There was no way he was going to give up on Sherlock's case.


	3. Chapter 3

The next few days were the closest thing to torture Sherlock had ever known. Dr. Watson had him come back every day, just as he said he would, and Sherlock had practically tore the door from the hinges as he left the moment he'd been a whole hour. They'd barely gotten past the first few points in their "discussion" but Sherlock was making points.

When he entered the next time, he immediately knew something was off. Dr. Watson wasn't standing to greet him and the way he held himself was almost like a different person. Sherlock closed the door and took a seat in one of the chairs. With an emotion Sherlock could barely believe he felt, he felt a nervous hitch in his breathing. He was more than a little aware, suddenly, that he was here willingly so far and at any moment he could be moved to a stronger, more strict rehab that wouldn't take his attitudes. Playing at least a bit friendly was working but the leash seemed to be getting smaller.

"We've barely touched the subject of your eating habits, Sherlock. Nothing is getting better even though we've allowed you to enter in and out of the cafeteria of your own free will." Dr. Watson gestured to Sherlock's pants where a key to the kitchen lay in the mans pocket. "We can't force you to each but we can force you to your appointment. I set one last week and it's tomorrow."

"There is nothing wrong with me. It's perfectly normal to..."

"There is no arguing with me today, Sherlock." Dr. Watson boomed his voice, even though Sherlock was almost certain it wasn't heard outside of the walls. It effectively stopped Sherlock's arguing, though he was unsure why such a thing would have his mind stutter. Maybe the heroin was being too effective.

"Tomorrow at eight you will be dressed, showered, maybe even fed, and orderlies will help you to the parking lot where you will get in a company van and moved to the hospital for your appointment. Your brother has been notified of the occurrence and has made us aware he will be watching just in case you do anything-how did he say-funny?"

"I am aware."

"You've spoken with your brother? There's no record of you having enough points for a call..."

"Mycroft is a predictable man nearly 100% of the time. He knows everything that goes on in my life and, if he wanted, everyone else's." Sherlock took a deep breath.

"How many points do I have?" He knew he should have at least enough to make the call but, as Dr. Watson suggested, he didn't.

The doctor sighed and cupped his hands under his chin. "You've been very uncooperative with me every session. I am the only person in charge of your point roster as well as privileges you receive. If I don't think you earn something, i don't give it to you. I can take anything away at any time if I deem you unworthy or abusing the privileged. Currently, you have five points for the lame attempts at trying to stay an hour."

"This is why my brother hired you." Sherlock grumbled, the realization of the full situation fully dawning on him. It occurred to him that the heroin was making his brain slow but in a way he liked it. In a large way he hated it.

He was going to go through withdrawals in about twenty minutes.

Sherlock maid the horrible mistake of waiting to get high until he could no longer take it. By eight in the morning, he was fully dosed. When the orderlies came, they said not one word, just helped him get dressed and to the parking lot. There, Dr. Watson was waiting next to a van. He saw Sherlock and his obvious high state. The look that passed the doctors face should have worried Sherlock but in his state, it nearly made him giggle.

The doctor at the hospital wordlessly ran a few tests which included drinking a blue dye and waiting for it to go through Sherlock's system. Then he had to give a pee sample as well as blood and a mouth swab. They were instructed to wait for a phone call-which would go directly to Dr. Watson-to await diagnoses or further studies if needed.

On the ride back, Sherlock just starting to fall back down, Dr. Watson turned to face him.

"We know the network people you pay to bring you drugs, Sherlock. We've been allowing them to do so in the hopes you'd stop on your own, possibly. My employer doesn't agree with your actions today and has determined we stop allowing the drug pedaling. Enjoy this high, and whatever else you may have stashed away, for it's the last you're getting.

"I will see you at our next meeting."

They pulled into the parking lot and Dr. Watson got out first, heading for a car and leaving. Sherlock was in a sour mood, understandably, since the doctor had taken a fairly good buzz and turned it into the equivalent of a screaming hell spawn.

On the way to his room, Sherlock encountered an orderly that urged him towards group therapy. Sherlock would have slipped out with a wiggle of his silver tongue had his high not been ruined. Trying to nurse a raging headache and paranoia, Sherlock sat in one of the chairs placed in a wide circle. He tried ignoring the people around him, giving sob stories about their addiction and that they want to get better. Yada, yada. The talking did nothing except make background noise only good for adding to his headache.

The surprising part was when Sherlock finally lost his patience every other person stood and dispersed. He'd stayed a whole meeting.

"I'm proud of you." The man with the clipboard said to Sherlock as he stood and started moving chairs back to their right place. Sherlock bolted out of the room before the clattering of chairs could drive him completely off the edge.

Right outside his door, relief filling him with pleasure so sweet he nearly shed a tear, two men stopped him in his tracks. Before they could utter a syllable, Sherlock angrily shouted in frustration and tore off to Dr. Watson's office. There's absolutely no way the sudden onslaught of bothers was coincidence.

Sherlock all but kicked the doctors door down, startling the man inside.

"Sherlock, what...?" Dr. Watson shot up from his chair just as Sherlock slammed the door shut and practically flew to the doctor. His hand circled the mans throat and he shoved him against the wall hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall.

"Don't appall me when I'm high."

"Wh...what?" The doctor didn't struggle, part of his training had included self protection from violent patients. Sherlock was barely holding his throat now that he was up against the wall. The violence was technically over, the stimuli still there, ready for when the man was triggered again. Sherlock felt his own hot breath coming off of John's face, they were so close.

"You killed my buzz."

"I believe the point of you being in rehab was specifically so you wouldn't get high."

Sherlock couldn't really disagree with that statement.

"I'm here against my will."

"You're free to leave whenever you want." Sherlock scoffed and let go of Dr. Watson. He moved to one of the chairs and practically threw himself on one, curling himself into a sideways ball.

"No. We both know I'd be put in handcuffs. Forced to a much more confining facility."

"You have a choice, Sherlock. Either do what your brother says in here or he forces you a different way. Are you really willing to give up what you have here for unknowns that may or may not be worse for you?"

"There are facilities like jails. I could get heroin smuggled in all the time."

Dr. Watson sat down, his face grimacing the smallest amount when his neck shifted. Sherlock noted there was going to be bruising. Somewhere deep inside him, a place the heroin didn't affect, felt sorry. Not enough.

"Your brother is a smart man. It is very unlikely he would place you in an area he believes you have a foothold. If he's so serious about treating you, do you think he would allow you to harm yourself further?"

"You'd follow me."

Shocked from the sudden, and seemingly random change of topic, Dr. Watson found himself unable to respond for a solid ten seconds. "What?"

"Mycroft hired you specifically for me. If I'm moved, you would be to."

"Yes, I suppose that's correct."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. To the doctor, it may appear the addict was planning upon falling asleep. Without opening his eyes Sherlock said, "there's a woman. In the room across from mine. She's been very depressed all week and I saw her hiding her toothbrush yesterday."

"You think she'll get violent?"

"The only person she's a danger to is herself."

The doctor placed a call, asking orderlies to check the woman's room and to have her taken for a depression exam. If there was even a small amount of evidence that she could be suicidal or self harming, she was to be under watch 24/7 until she could be taken care of. After the call, to witch the doctor asked for a call back with news about the situation, Dr. Watson sat quietly as Sherlock stayed, eyes closed, in the chair.

About fifteen minutes later the phone rang. Sherlock didn't even flinch-he hadn't moved more than an inch since he'd spoken. After the confirmation that a toothbrush of considerable sharpness at one end, the orderlies had her appointment for a sychiatric test made tomorrow. Currently she was moved to a soft, padded cell where she would be monitored through cameras as well as an orderly with her at all times.

"That was very kind of you."

The addict didn't react to the words.

"Sherlock?" The sound of steady, even breathing told the doctor the man was sleeping. Since he was Dr. Watsons' only patient, he figured allowing the man to sleep would not be the end of the world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Brief language and some sexuality.**

* * *

><p>About half an hour after the addict fell asleep, the doctor left the room and informed everyone that Sherlock was having a session with him. Due to high levels of anger and the high, it was going to be a long session. Dr. Watson signed Sherlock off on his afternoon activities so it didn't look like he was skipping. Again.<p>

It took a total of five hours for Sherlock to wake back up again. When he did, the soft shuffling of papers greeted him. He cracked open an eye and saw the doctor fast at work, going through papers and files. The desk was practically overfilled with open files. His hands worked fast, writing here or there, switching around papers, opening or closing files. It was a calming sound. It was calming to watch.

The clock on the wall stated he'd been asleep a little more than five hours. He hadn't meant to fall asleep but he was very glad he had done so. Except for the kink in his neck and the stiff feeling between his legs. He was with clear head now, completely unlike when he'd outright attacked the man. Soft bruises lined the doctor's neck already. There would be a darker color to them later on and the repercussions of such an act would come to bite Sherlock in the ass.

He would lie still until the pressure in his pants receded. Hopefully his neck wouldn't start to ache much more.

"Your breathing changed. Did you sleep well?" Dr. Watson said softly, actually startling Sherlock.

"Yes."

"Your records show you sleep less than four hours a day, never all together. I'm honored my office could give you enough comfort to allow so much sleep."

"I slept off the high."

"Do you have any more heroin?"

"No." The doctor looked at Sherlock, gauging his response.

"I'm going to allow myself to be available every day between eight in the morning and five at night. The office has my number if you have any problems when I'm not in." Sherlock sat up, giving the doctor a strange look. "You won't be allowed any more drugs, Sherlock. Your real therapy starts right now. The moment you feel the need to get high, you need to have someone contact me."

Sherlock stood and stretched a little. The pressure from his morning wood was almost completely gone so he felt safe enough. After stretching, Sherlock turned to the door but paused right before the handle.

"Dr. Watson, how many points do I have?"

"You can call me John."

"John." Sherlock tested the name, finding he liked it more.

"You have 100 points." From the look on Sherlock's face, John could practically taste the surprise. "You gained fifty from telling me about the woman. And you spent over five hours in the office with me."

Sherlock nodded and left the office. John wasn't being nice. He was simply rewarding Sherlock for having told about the woman. Any points he may have received sitting in misery at the meeting was lost due to the whole attacking situation. Anything he'd gotten at the appointment for behaving was probably lost as well. Then again, why was he getting points for sleeping in the mans' office?

After relaxing in his room the rest of the night, Sherlock waiting nearly impatiently until eight when Mycroft would be just getting into his office. The woman at the desk smiled politely as she gave the phone to Sherlock.

"Hello?" Mycroft answered the phone. Sherlock wasn't even remotely surprised that the call was directed straight to his office. It would have been irritating to have to go through the desk clerks and receptionists.

"I have a word to discuss with you."

"Ah. Sherlock, listen to me when I tell you this. I will only tell you once." Sherlock frowned at the sound in his brothers' voice. It was more serious, more anything than he'd heard before. "I don't care if it takes the rest of your life. You will stay in that facility until you are better. If you become a problem for them I will have you moved to a much more secure location. You follow their rules, brother mine, and you will find it not so bad."

"Your humor is dry, Mycroft. This place isn't helping me at all."

"I'm getting reports every morning about your days. I personally think you're doing fine. Do you like the doctor I found? I'm told he's quite unmovable."

"He's a rather large pain."

"Much like you."

Sherlock gently laid the phone on the cradle. It was painfully outdated, fit with a cord. There was no need to make the woman behind the desk any more jumpy than she already was. The detective, between his high and withdrawals, gave a five-second look at the receptionist.

Married, she constantly touched the ring but it wasn't old. She looked worried but not too much. There were three small cuts on the knuckle of her hand. Her hair was carefully tidy and she had a nice scent about her. The expression she gave hinted at not happy but at the same time satisfied. She was cheating on her husband, young. He didn't know and her lovers probably didn't either. She had a cat, only one. She dressed nice for her job but she'd visited a man-not her husband-before work. It was obvious by the nervous way she moved and glanced at people who walked by that she wasn't happy with her job and had taken it possibly for the money.

The man next to her was so boring Sherlock practically got bored glancing at him. He was more than happy to be at work. He didn't have a girlfriend and probably never spent time with family. It didn't help that Sherlock saw the guy almost every day and the guy was around for nearly 12 hours each. He took so much joy at work he pushed everything else away. Sherlock could relate but at the same time it made him very boring. His job was the same every day. Sherlock was positive his job was much more enthusiastic and full of unexpected turns.

On his way back to his room Sherlock kept a smirk plastered on his face. Every person he walked by he could read like a book. Words popped up around them and spun in his mind. He didn't give half a shit what he said when he was high, he would never want to be completely rid of his mind. It was a wonderful thing.

Looking forward to stretching out his brain until he was physically ill of others, Sherlock sat in the dining hall and watched people. After living with them for a few weeks, he was finally deducing them. They lived boring, sad lives. The people who actually lived in rehab were more interesting. Not by much.

In a rather fine mood, Sherlock actually ate a few bites of food, smuggled a few bottles of water into his room and thought about how long he'd be stuck here. Mycroft was very intense about his stand on the subject. Which meant Sherlock had to please John.

After not sleeping at all through the night and being told five different times throughout the night by orderlies to "go back to bed, Sherlock, or so help me..." Sherlock finally woke with the others. He tried smooth talking himself outside to get some fresh air, to which the reply from everyone asked was "no, you don't have the points for an outing."

"Does everyone know about my point status?" Sherlock angrily grumbled out as he slipped into one of John's chair.

"You having problems wiggling your way out of everyone's reach?" John asked sweetly without flinching at the slammed door or the sudden intrusion of the addict. Sherlock gave a dark glare to the man. John took in a deep, steadying breath. "You'll earn the points."

"How much until I can go outside?"

"Considering how hard it has been for you to get points? 100 for an outing in the yard. 500 for off-grounds supervised."

"Not cutting a lot of slack, are we?" Sherlock rubbed his temples, trying to steady his migraine and stay inside his skin. The beginning withdrawals were starting to become a steady thrum rather than an in and out type of thing. As per usual, Sherlock hadn't contacted John at all up until now.

Due to the look he was getting from John, Sherlock guessed the doctor was well aware of the withdrawals plaguing the man sitting in his chair. The look of gleeful irritation was nearly painful to withstand.

"As a matter of fact, I'm treating you the exact same way as everyone else. The only difference is they gain points faster."


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock was requested that he would have to come back the next day. John insisted that having a daily conversation may encourage better behavior and possibly help regulate any withdrawal symptoms that seemed worse one day but on the verge of escalating the next.

Unhappily and knowing there was no other option, Sherlock came back just as he was requested. As he went into the room, he saw John sitting at the computer and clicking away fairly quickly. His eyebrows were pulled together and his face was scrunched in concentration. Sherlock, having burst into the door rather loudly, carefully shut the door as quiet as he could.

The doctor didn't seem to have noticed the addicts entrance.

Not willing to disturb the rare and first look into how the man was like away from Sherlock, the addict stayed by the door and made not a noise. John clicked furiously away, his head barely moving as he kept note of his writing. Sherlock couldn't see his face very well, so he couldn't tell where the eyes were shifting to and from.

Sherlock felt half of his face curve into a smirk and then into a soft grin. Watching the man work warmed Sherlock in a way he never knew he could be warmed. For a few seconds Sherlock didn't feel the intensity of his drug addiction, but he felt another addiction just as dangerous rising in his lower stomach.

Squelching the thought and the mental pictures that arose from finding the man at the desk attractive once more-the first time they'd met having been the only time up until now, Sherlock stepped into the room fully and sat down with a loud plop, one of his feet hitting the desk with an even louder thud. John didn't flinch or jump or even look over. He continued his work as if Sherlock had done nothing.

Had the man been on drugs or even completely clean with no withdrawal symptoms, Sherlock would have had more decency than he showed currently.

"John." Sherlock stood from the chair and leaned on the desk. John made absolutely no move to acknowledge the addicts behavior. "John." Sherlock straightened and made to sit on John's desk.

"I told you to come back today, yes. I did not, however, tell you to come in whenever you felt like bothering me. I've work to do now."

"You said you would be available."

"You're not in any harm aside from stabbing yourself in the butt with my pen." Sherlock glanced down and found there was a pen fairly close to where he'd almost sat. "If your session can wait, come back in half an hour."

Sherlock, feeling snubbed and the strange anger in his veins, turned without words and left the room. He heard John stand up and say something but he didn't catch what it was from the slamming of the door. The man, filled with anger he'd never felt before since young years with Mycroft, stomped around for a few minutes before stumbling into the rec room where a meeting was going on.

The orderly asked Sherlock to pull up a chair if he wanted and Sherlock, for some reason, sat down quietly.

"Sherlock, can you please tell us what brought you here today? We would all love if you'd share your thoughts today."

Sherlock shifted so he was comfortable and not stiff as a rod. "Yeah. Sure." For some reason, Sherlock couldn't think of a damn nice thing to say. There was no reason in his head to say a nice thing.

"You want to know my thoughts?" Sherlock asked and was pleased with some nods and soft "yes"s he received. He turned to the woman right beside him. "I have thoughts about you." The startled looks could have scared a saint. "You have been in rehab more than you've been on the outside and it's sickening how easily you jump off the wagon. You don't do anything for society. You are a waste." Sherlock turned to the woman next to her, tears in her eyes. "You have nothing wrong with you except your husband doesn't love you anymore. You can't come here and hide from the reality. No one believes you're an addict or mentally unstable, they pity you." Sherlock turned to the man across the room who stood up in anger. "You don't belong here, you belong in a hospital for the unstable. How can a man like you hope to get better surrounded my addicts when you have bipolar?"

Sherlock took to his feet as the angry patient crossed the circle in a second flat. They stood nose to nose. The orderly called for help. Sherlock saw John enter the room with a startled look on his face. Finally, some type of real emotion on that mans face! John spotted the addict and made a beeline around the orderlies and guards waiting for a possible confrontation.

It having been less than five seconds since the man came nose-to-nose with Sherlock, it was nearly a surprise when the man threw a punch and nicked Sherlock in the jaw. If Sherlock hadn't seen it last second, it would have left a very pretty bruise, but the nick may just be a bruise the six of three separate knuckles.

The moment the fist made contact with Sherlock, the orderly and guards rushed forward but Sherlock waved them off as he staggered backwards. the group ascended upon the angry patient, his being a possible threat to others the main issue since Sherlock had clearly stated he was fine. Once everyone was paying attention to the middle of the room, Sherlock felt a hand wrap around his arm. Before he could fully register what was happening, he was being pulled not too kindly out of the room.

"John..."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Before too long, John practically threw him on the couch in his office and slammed the door closed. The lock clicked firmly in place. John turned around and stared at Sherlock angrily.

"You behave like a child."

"They wanted to know what I was thinking."

"They wanted to know your story! What makes you think every second you have to be the center of attention?" John sighed heavily. Sherlock wasn't even listening. He'd curled into the couch, his back the only thing John could see. "Sherlock I'm not going away."

"You pulled me here."

"Because you went on a rage after I told you to wait to see me."

"That wasn't why."

"Tell me, then. This is what I'm here for." John pulled one of the chairs over and sat next to the couch. Sherlock peeked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow before curling back over.

"I was honest." Sherlock was curled into himself almost like he had pains. John didn't seem worried, for the man was obviously not in physical pain.

"You were rude."

"Honesty is what it is!" Sherlock spun in one quick motion into a sitting position facing John. The doctor seemed a tad bit surprised but quickly hid it behind a very professional expression. "People can't handle the truth about themselves."

"You aren't here trying to fix other people, Sherlock. This is rehab for you." Sherlock could tell John was, for the first time, getting flustered. So much for being able to handle hard cases. Unless, of course, Sherlock was more than just a hard case. Good.

"I don't need rehab."

"Aren't you feeling withdrawals? Isn't that where the anger is coming from?" The man was composing himself and Sherlock couldn't have that.

"Drugs are nice to me. I don't need rehab."

"Drugs are bad! They are causing you to be emotional and irrational. Not to mention rude."

Sherlock chuckled a bit, running fingers through his curly hair. Had the doctor not read the files? Had he forgotten what Sherlock was like? It wasn't a secret that Sherlock deduced and was rude about it. Other people's feelings were not important.

"They keep my head clear."

"If your brother thought they were good for you, would you be here?"

"He doesn't understand."

"He cares about you." Sherlock burst out in a very uncharacteristic guffaw. John looked on disapprovingly.

"Mycroft, cares?" The addict sobered and looked serious at John, staring at him like the addict he assumed him to be. John stared back, his eyes narrowed just a bit.

The two stared at each other for a few minutes. John finally leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

"I want you to come to terms with the fact that you're here for a reason. I believe we haven't had any progress due to you stuck on the first step. Acceptance."

"I don't need to accept it. I'm not depressed."

"Acceptance is the first step to a lot of problem fixings."

Sherlock looked the man up and down. "Have you accepted your stress? The reason for it?"

"I don't..."

"I can figure out why..." Sherlock paused a moment, letting the thoughts collect. "Who has caused this problem. Is it a woman?'

"No, I..."

"A man?" Sherlock was gaining a lot of satisfaction the more frustrated John got. "Is it family? Your phone is on the desk. It always is."

John turned to see that his phone was, in fact, laying upside down on the desk. It was where it normally lay and Sherlock had been close enough multiple times to see the back where his sister's name was.

"My sister!" John turned back to Sherlock to find the man holding a smirk. "It's my sister."

"So the man has his problems."

"Everyone has problems. Stop making this about me."

"Does she think you're a failure?"

"Why did you say those rude things?"

"You're avoiding it. Why does she stress you?"

"It was hurtful to those people."

"What does it matter?"

John was in a right fury at the moment, having seemed to finally realize just how bad Sherlock was. "It matters!"

Sherlock smirked which just seemed to make the doctor more mad. John stood, furious. Sherlock was ready for this, had actually been waiting for it. He stood with the man and for one split second, the two stood toe to toe. The next, Sherlock had his hands buried deep in the doctors hair. Their lips smashed together with an intensity so hot it was no longer painful. With the forward motion, Sherlock had accidentally pushed John backwards and they both fell into the chair. Sherlock stayed on his feet, leaning over the man who sat ramrod stiff, neck bent back. Not a small fraction of their lips separated.

Not having thought the confrontation would have come to a kiss, let alone one so fiery it seemed to burn the clothes he wore, Sherlock was stunned a moment. He let the kiss ravage on, their heads tilting to get deeper and more intense. One of his hands stayed in the man's hair, the other moved down to his neck and encouraged a deeper kiss. John leaned back, allowing the two men's legs to cross and their knees to rest together.

Sherlock groaned as John's hands rose and grabbed fistfuls of shirt, fingers spreading out to touch the lean body before clenching again. The two men seemed to be trying different tactics to bring their bodies flush together without removing the hold on their lips. This point drove home when John's tongue shot between Sherlock's lips and John was rewarded with a deep groan and long fingers pulling for him to get closer.

Just as suddenly as Sherlock had started the kiss, which had led to a steamy make-out session, he ended it. He pulled back and stood straight in one quick motion. John stayed in the chair, hair tousled and lips swollen. His arms had dropped to his lap and he didn't seem in the mood to change their position quiet yet.

Without a word, Sherlock left the room, making sure to compose himself as well as cose the door behind him. It wouldn't do to have someone-anyone-see John in a state such as that. Rumors would spread and before Sherlock could get points to call Mycroft again, John would be pulled out of the building.

Sherlock was intrigued with the man far too much to allow such a thing to happen.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day, Sherlock stayed in his room up until an orderly knocked and told him John expected him at his office. Sherlock told the man he'd be there soon. There were a few moments of absolute silence before Sherlock could start to hear the sound of thriving life around him.

He entered the door and closed it quietly behind him.

"Lock it." John demanded from his desk. Sherlock clicked the lock into place without a comment or body language. He then carefully, with a collected manor, sat down in one of the chairs. John was looking at him, a folder open on his desk and papers scattered about.

Sherlock had glanced, found the papers to be about him.

"Your brother called to check up on your case and I informed him of your outburst yesterday. He asked if my opinion was to pull you out and put you somewhere else." Sherlock raised his head a fraction, bracing himself for the obvious. "I told him, in my opinion, that the outburst was actually a good sign."

"What?"

"You are having withdrawals, but you're acting like you always do. With the outburst of emotion, any kind, I see progress. Mycroft has agreed to keep you here longer and will make another check up in due time."

It was hard for the words to process into Sherlock's brain, his frustration towards Mycroft making the symptoms nearly double. He felt his fingers dig into the chair. The feeling of being in prison, being forced to stay in a small cell, surrounded him. His chest tightened.

"Are... are you having a panic attack?" John asked, standing from his chair rather quickly. Sherlock found it hard to respond, his fingers going numb. His lungs ached, he couldn't remember when he'd last taken a breath. From a distance, he heard John say something that may have been a yell from far away.

Hands grabbed a hold of Sherlock and faces came into view. More hands gently tried to remove his fingers from the chair. John's voice, mumbled and possibly encouraging Sherlock to let go, came from far away.

Without having realized he'd blacked out, Sherlock woke in the medical ward. A woman dressed as a nurse was next to him, taking a blood sample. She seemed surprised to find him awake, but smiled quickly.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes."

"Morning?"

"You've been asleep since yesterday afternoon. You passed out in Dr. Watson's office." She pulled the needle from his arm, placing a band aid on the puncture. As she was fiddling with her objects, getting ready to leave, she asked, "is there anything I can get you?"

"Let Dr. Watson know I'm awake and I'd like to speak to him." She nodded and was off. Sherlock noticed with disdain that there were a few other people in the room with him, more than half noticeably ill.

After learning to hate the medical ward and waiting a good half hour, John walked in with a folder in his arms. Sherlock watched the man walk in, neither man saying anything as the doctor situated into a chair beside the bed.

"Your symptoms became full fledged yesterday, I noticed."

"Really? I hadn't." The sarcasm was obvious, but Sherlock added the dull facial expression for extra blow. John noticed and returned the look.

"The news about your brother seems to have finally triggered it. You fought off a fever up until about an hour ago." He put the folder on the side table, Sherlock's name written in neat handwriting along the side. "I suspect you'll have normal symptoms from now on. The only thing I'm worried about is how long they will last. Each case is different."

"You've been waiting for me to crash, haven't you?"

"I would be lying if I said no. In all honesty, it's the best thing for you. If it helps, even though I know it won't, I'm on-call until your symptoms stop and Mycroft has given the demand that I stay 24/7 if I have to in order to keep you from the drugs and also hurting yourself."

"You're all being ridiculous."

"You can think what you want, the next two weeks for you are not going to be pleasant."

John didn't leave the room for a few hours after that. Sherlock found the man was rather comfortable sitting without being acknowledged in any way, shape, or form. It was a quality Sherlock found himself admiring. Around lunch time, the two ate in silence and when two orderlies came to help Sherlock with his daily exercise, or at least to get him out of bed for a while, John finally left. He encouraged Sherlock to request for him at any given time, regardless.

Sherlock figured there was no escaping that man, even if he didn't call for him.

Two weeks later, after the most gross, disgusting time of Sherlock's life, he was allowed to go outside his room without supervision and his check-ups went from every hour to once every three.

His body was done spewing out gross fluids and sweating. He had stopped going up and down with his fever about two days ago. Sleep had gone from an hour every few days back to a few hours a night. John had even gotten him to eat a bit every day rather than a bit every few days. The need to slip the needle into his arm and let the heroin bite his insides had subsided almost completely.

John had invited him for another meal in the doctors office and Sherlock, as per usual, couldn't say no without the threat of isolation or sedation. Both of which he'd had plenty of the last two weeks.

"I hope the food is more agreeable for you today," John remarked, referring to a few days ago when Sherlock had taken a few bites, gotten dizzy and thrown up.

Sherlock licked his lips after a bite of bland mashed potatoes. His eyes lazily looked at John who was busy poking his green beans in an attempt to get them on the plastic fork. Sherlock wouldn't say this outright but not everything returned back to normal yet, and one of them was his ability to eat without wanting to throw up. Usually he could stomach a few meals every two or three days. He hadn't been able to stomach anything for nearly a week and it was wearing him thin both physically and mentally. It was hard to think about how much his body needed the nutrients.

If he wasn't careful, he'd be throwing up again. He could barely stomach the second bite of potatoes. Curious, he took a bite of the green beans. Immediately, he regretted it but forced it down to keep John from being suspicious. The faster he could prove there was nothing wrong, the faster they could get into the next stage and then he'd be out of here. He hadn't worked on a case way too long. The point system, which stupidly reset after you used the points, didn't amuse him anymore since Mycroft wouldn't let him out. There was no point in calling anyone else. There was nowhere he wanted to go that he was able to get points to go to.

"If you think you're fooling me, try again." John said calmly, his eyes never leaving the next fork-full of green beans. Sherlock straightened in the chair.

"Okay," Sherlock put the plastic tray up on John's desk and pushed it away from the edge. He looked directly into the doctors eyes, daring him to make a comment. John didn't make a sound or even glance higher than the tray. Sherlock thought he'd won until his stomach started to do circles.

John, who didn't seem to have glanced at Sherlock's face this whole time even though he knew the man was faking being okay, put his fork down and spun in his chair. He grabbed the waste basket and stood, moving over to the other side and handing it over to Sherlock.

"I don't ne..." Sherlock started but his stomach did a flip and he pitched forward, his head sinking into the basket. John held onto it until Sherlock fell to his knees and grasped the basket for himself.

John's fingers wiped hair from Sherlock's brow once he was done heaving. They locked eyes and John gave a small smile. Sherlock knit his brows together. John's fingers tucked messy, unruly hair as far back as he could. The curls rounded about his fingers like tiny caresses as they moved about.

"I've got mouth wash." John said softly and Sherlock let a small, almost non existent smile touch his lips. John let go of Sherlock's hair and went to the main drawer in his desk. He pulled out a bottle of mint mouthwash and handed it over to Sherlock. "Just do it here."

Sherlock complied, swishing it around until he was satisfied. After the first dose, he did a second just to be safe. When he was completely satisfied, he put the basket down and sat in the chair. His skin felt clammy and his body felt hot.

"I feel like I have a fever."

"You were hot when I moved your hair. I would say it's possible. Your immune system was down the last few weeks and it is flu season. I would suggest going to see the nurse when you feel up to it." John leaned against the desk on Sherlock's side, crossing his ankles and taking hold of the desk with both hands. Sherlock stood slowly, focusing on the uneasy feeling in his muscles due to the heaving.

Once he was fully up, Sherlock reached out and touched John's stomach over the shirt. The doctor didn't flinch. The touching from before confirmed Sherlock's suspicions that the man had been okay with the heated kiss they had shared. Which was well enough because Sherlock definitely wanted to have that experience again.

Unfortunately because he'd just thrown up, regardless of the mouthwash, Sherlock wasn't going to kiss him. He wasn't at all shy about pulling himself against John's body, breath turned downwards to keep the possible smell away.

"Do you feel better?" John murmured against his forehead, lips shifting hairs against his skin.

"Yeah."

"I think you should probably get some nourishment in you."

"I throw everything up, how do you plan on fixing that?"

"There's a few things we can try. You're wasting away." John slipped a hand up Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock hadn't attempted to look decent weeks before he'd started the detox. There was no button up shirts for that man. The comfortable shirts he had brought with him were now unhealthily loose. John grimaced as he felt the bones sticking out.

"They normally are like that." Sherlock remarked, making the look on John's face worse. "It's weird to feel actual hunger."

"Ordinary people get hungry at least three times a day."

"Yes." Sherlock shifted, suddenly uncomfortable with the contact. John, being him, noticed and pulled back, going around the desk to put space between them.

"I'm going to suggest you go to the medical ward when you leave here. They're going to take some tests and possibly hook you to an IV for an hour, possibly try and get some nutritional pills in you." Sherlock was already dismissing the idea when John shook a hand at him. "Don't even think about it. I will walk you there. Keep an eye on you."

"I don't need an escort."

"Yes, you do." John stood up and opened his office door. He encouraged Sherlock to follow and after an exaggerated sigh, Sherlock stood and followed John. After making sure the addict got to the med ward and he actually stayed for the tests and IV, John took his leave. When Sherlock was given the okay to leave an hour later to go back to his room, the IV done, John got a call to inform him that Sherlock had stayed the whole time.

John licked his lips when he hung up the phone. There was a large part of him that wanted, very badly, for Sherlock to come back to his office. It was inappropriate and John relaxed knowing the dirty things Sherlock was doing stayed in his head. Given the rage of withdrawal was over and the dislike of physical touch and closeness, it was unlikely Sherlock would allow anything past the make-out and touching from earlier.

There was no guilt when John went home for the night, his phone on loud in case he was called into Willowbrook due to a Sherlock meltdown, and got into a hot shower with the man on his mind. John did the normal routine in the shower before shamelessly leaning against the shower wall, his hands trailing downward. The moment his fingers found the soft, tender flesh that had swollen at the mere thought of Sherlock, John let out a groan.

His fingers wrapped snug around his hard length as he imagined Sherlock touching his chest. As Sherlock went lower, his knees hitting the floor, John went faster. John knew he was making all sorts of noises but he lived alone in his flat and the shower would have killed any traveling noise to the neighbors. The groans and moans that wracked through his body urged him faster, the thought of Sherlock leaning forward. The addicts tongue darting out, tasting the salty flesh. His lips wrapped around the head and slipped farther down, warming and wetting John's length. The image drove John mad and before he could slow himself to make the picture last, he felt the most amazing pleasure shoot through his body.

As the orgasm shot through his body, Sherlock's name ripped out of John's lips and he leaned forward, milking the last of the pleasure, resting his forehead against the shower wall. For a few minutes he stood there, breathing the steam in. It was the first time he'd thought of Sherlock that way so deep but having felt his flesh and touching his face, it had driven his imagination crazy.

John dressed in his night clothes and went to bed more relaxed than before. The thought of John not actually being gay, and having never kissed another man, never entered his mind.


End file.
